


A lost soul

by human_err0r



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: 221b, Alcohol, Alcoholism, Angst, Army, Blood, Childhood, Death, Destruction, Detective, Drugs, England - Freeform, Gay, Harry Watson - Freeform, Hospital, If I stay, John Watson - Freeform, London, Loss, Love, M/M, Memories, Possible Lemon, Scotland Yard, Sentiments, Sexuality, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Tears, War, bakerstreet, car crash, consulting detective, friends - Freeform, pavement, sholto - Freeform, soul, watsons - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 12:57:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7618975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/human_err0r/pseuds/human_err0r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Afternoon. London. A car crash.<br/>John Watson gets hit by a car.<br/>But what if, after people die, their soul is still there, wandering around. Lost souls remain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Does it hurt?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi people! This story is based and inspired by the book/film 'If I Stay'. I will follow the general idea of it, but of course, I will add my own ideas, head anima, inspirations. I hope you'll like it!  
> P.S: I'm slow to write but I'll do what I can to be quicker!

### Does it hurt?

 Some people have always wondered.. Does dying hurt? Sometimes yes. Sometimes no. Sometimes, dying is faster than falling asleep. Sometimes, it seems to be longer than a day.  

 When you get stabbed, multiple times, and you're left there, half alive half dead. When you're getting strangled, and it lasts and lasts..and ends after an eternity. There are deaths that make you feel you're are dying. You are fading away.

 However, John Watson didn't even realize he was on death row. Dark, blue eyes opened.

 

My head...

 

 The first thing that crossed his field of vision was the grey, cloudy, threatening sky.

 

It's going to rain..

 

 Then, flash lights and the loud noise of an ambulance. John blinked, a few times, his heart lifting to his throat, getting stuck there, until it went down, and up again. Around him, the sound of precipitated steps on the road made of macadam.

-Sir! Are you alright? Sir?!

-Well, my head hurts, but except that, I am fine.

 As the blonde Doctor said that, he rubbed his face, his eyes closing, swallowing hard. The weirdest wasn't the fact he was asked if he felt good, nor the fact he was lying on the road (though it really wasn't something normal), but the fact those people asking him if he felt fine were running past him, without seeming to see him. -Sir!

-Oh my God, he's bleeding!

-Step aside! Go away! Let us pass by! I said, step aside!

 Slowly, painfully, John stood up, his ears buzzing. He felt like his brain was going to explode in his skull. He winced, closing his eyes tightly as soon as his feet touched the ground, because everything was blurry. When he opened his eyes, it was back to the normal, and it relieved him, only for a few seconds. His gaze fell on some policemen dressed up in blue uniforms, on the yellow ambulance, on all the persons in the street who looked scared, shocked, frightened, some covering their mouth or some even crying. The fear was obviously communicative, and soon the ex army Doctor started to freak out as well, but when he noticed his own body, laid on the ground, eyes closed, hair stick on his forehead by the blood, that was also colouring the ground, an arm folded in a weird angle, his mind went blank, and he didn't know he could be that afraid. Afraid, yes, but also perplexed.

Lost.

 His body stiffed and he held back a scream, his legs feeling weak and trembling like never before. Slowly, he reached a hand up to his left arm and pinched the skin. He winced but the corpse stayed where it was. It wasn't a dream. Only a nightmare.

-Let us pass by! Damnit!

 Two young ambulance man and woman overtook him without touching him, and knelt down on each side of the bloody man, checking his pulse. Before John could say anything, they took his body, pulled it on a stretcher and it was pulled eagerly into the ambulance. The doctor watched it go, heart racing in his chest. He envisaged to follow them, but he wouldn't be quick enough. And his feet refused to move anyway.

-Do you think he's dead?

 The blonde man slightly jumped up and turned around, to face two women, who were having their eyes fixed on the vehicle.

-If he's not, I think it will happen soon.

 The doctor stepped back, eyes wide opened in terror. He was /there/. Why was nobody seeing him? Why did he see his own body, completely wounded and bruised?

 

Sherlock...

 

 He had to find Sherlock, and enlighten this mystery. He wasn't sure where his companion was, but he could, surely, help him. He would have sent him a message, but he didn't find his phone when he slid his hand in his pocket. Fine. He would go back home.  

 That appeared to be more difficult than he thought. No cabs stopped for him. He could shout, make large gestures, waving, it was useless. It was like he disappeared.

 

But I'm not dead. I'm here. I'm alive.

 

 Eventually, he abandoned all hopes of catching a taxi and decided he would walk home. That definitely was longer than going by cab? But he didn't really have the choice.

 When he finally arrived at Baker Street, his feet were hurting from the long distance. He tiredly headed upstairs, only wishing he could fall on his chair and stay there without moving for an hour or two, but he was welcomed by two different and familiar voices.

-...highly important. So will you come..?

-I'm busy with something else.

-He's not. He has no cases since Monday.

 That was what John said as he entered in the sitting room. As he was half expecting, he didn't get any reaction. Not even from Greg Lestrade, who was continuing to look at Sherlock as if he was going to jump on him and strangle him. The blond had no idea of what they were talking about, but obviously, Sherlock upset him. Again.

-Oh yeah? With what? The detective inspector asked, raising an eyebrow, crossing his arms on his chest.

-Things, the other man replied, slowly turning away to carefully grab his violin, posed on his own chair.

 He started to play a slow, beautiful melody John had never heard before, his eyes fluttering close.

-Did you write that? Lestrade asked, impressed. It wasn't often he was to listen to Sherlock Holmes's music.

-Improvising, Sherlock answered with a shrug, wandering in the flat, still playing, moving gracefully, some curls falling on his forehead as his head tilted slightly.

 For a while, the ex soldier's gaze couldn't leave this handsome, tall curly man, eyes wide in fascination. Though he was straight, he could completely enjoy the beauty of a person who was the same sex as him. And Sherlock has such a beauty. Brute, deep, burning one. John made a step on the right as his flatmate approached him without obviously knowing it, and for a few seconds, a soft, light scent of coffee and apple hit his nostrils. He smelled the tobacco only after, and it disappointed him. If Sherlock was trying to be discreet with that, well, it was a big fail. As they were both standing close, John wondered if they would be able to touch each other. If he was apparently invisible, that would be impossible, wouldn't it? But what he saw earlier had to be a trick, a dream. Or most likely, a nightmare. Maybe this body wasn't even his. Maybe it was just someone who was looking bloody much like him. But then... Why was everybody acting like he was not present?

-Sherlock, I don't want to sound insistent, but I really need to..

-Is it my brother who sent you here? The tall detective suddenly stopped playing and walked toward the other man in the room, an eyebrow slowly raising.

 For him, it was sure. It had to be Mycroft.

-What? No, Lestrade answered, shaking his head negatively.

-No?

-Right, stop being so- Where's John, by the way?

 As he heard his name, the blond froze and searched for Sherlock's eyes, hoping he was going to see him. He /had/ to see him.

The detective blinked, seemingly quite absentmindedly, before he turned around and around, as if he was going to find him that way. You could, open your eyes, you git! John was there. Only a few meters away from his two friends. How? Why?

-Gone, the brunet assumed, shrugging. He forgot his phone here, he observed and the doctor slapped himself mentally, but soon felt utterly stupid to attach any kind of importance to this rubbish.

-Where?

-No idea.

 Well, that hurt. God, that hurt. He knew he should be used to it right now, but it was still hurting. The once he was considering like his best friend didn't even notice he was gone to buy some groceries. He was sure that if he truly was dying, if he was absent for weeks, the detective wouldn't even spot it. His heart pounded and squeezed, in a surprisingly strong way, so hard was the pain a hand reached to his chest and he winced, eyes closing tightly. He even let out a small squeak before he sat down on the couch, breathing in and out, his actions getting slower as he as he started to feel better, but a ringtone made him jump up and gasp. He glanced at his own phone, but it was only Sherlock's one, so he could relax a bit.

-Sherlock Holmes, the brunet announced, his eyebrows furrowed softly.

John, as well as Greg, were watching Sherlock wit a deep interest, interpreting every of his moves and gestures, trying to get what he was told.

-Yes. That's me.

 A silence followed, thick, uncomfortable, which made the doctor stand up and go to the kitchen, wondering if they were going to see if he was going to open the fridge, or if they were going to hear the water flow from the tap. Finally, he didn't dare to do those things and went back to the sitting room, his arms crossing on his chest. His dark blue eyes got stuck into the ones of his friend, watching out for the slightest sign of emotion. There were times when he couldn't see anything. Now, as the time passed, as the slight mumble he could hear from the phone continued, John could see fear. Deep, overwhelming fear.

 His muscles tensed.

 His jaw clenched.

-Sherlock..

The ex soldier made a step towards him, outstretched arm, like to touch him, to grab his hand. Sherlock swallowed, his own right arm slowly lowering. His gaze was empty. For one second, Watson thought he saw some tears, pale reflect in his eyes.

-Sherlock..

-I take the case.

His thumb pressed the red phone button and he pulled his phone in the pocket of his trousers.

-What? Greg asked, incredulous.

-I said I take the case. No need to brief me. Let's go.

He was hiding something. John knew it. He wasn't alright. He had this detached tone, that he was having every time something was troubling his mind. After so many years with him, he started to know him, more than the detective himself would admit. His black, long coat got slipped on his muscular shoulders, his blue scarf wrapped around his neck, and he was heading downstairs, making Lestrade call him back and almost run after him.

 John stood there.

 Alone.

 What was he told? What did he heard?

The flat was empty. But who said this was meaning there was no presence inside? Standing in the sitting room was a soul. A lost soul.


	2. Blood and flies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes a significant dream and slowly starts to understand in what situation he is going through..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One month, people, one month! Shame on me.  
> I hope you will enjoy this second chapter, a bit longer than the first one. Keep in mind I have hard to write fast, but I don't give up!

This night, John got awoken by loud, heavy steps coming from behind the closed door of his bedroom.  
 Hours ago, as Sherlock and Lestrade went out, leaving him completely alone, though he was already lonely even with their company, John stayed down in the sitting room, 'experimenting'. He checked every little and simple daily things, to be sure he was still able to them properly, as apparently, he left his body, and was only something between a ghost and a lost soul. This strange, supernatural, impossible fact wasn't totally accepted by the doctor. That was why he spent a great time on Internet (thanks God he could use his computer), searching about accounts of people who had seen their body, like if they were outside it. Except some crazy and particularly horrible descriptions of bloody deaths and the website of a curious, old psychic who was claiming that every night, for twenty six minutes, she was getting out of her body as if it was an opened church, and getting back with strange feelings after this experience, he couldn't find anything interesting. That was what decided him to go to the library, to see if he could possibly have better results, but he would have the opportunity to only go the next day.   
 Though it seemed so, this end of the day wasn't revealing itself as totally useless. First, he started to elaborate some plans about how it all would possibly be a bad joke, and second, it appeared he could still eat, drink, touch things (but he wasn't sure about people), briefly, everything he could do as if it was all perfectly normal, which led to the conclusion that everything was, indeed, perfectly normal, except that nobody could see him, nor hear him. The idea that Sherlock and Greg were only mocking him by pretending he wasn't existing started to born in his mind, but he wasn't imagining Gregory Lestrade doing this, and certainly not as the accomplice of Sherlock git Holmes.  
 He had had rougher days, but this evening, a bit after ten past midday, he was relieved to lay there, on his bed, wrapped in his warm, soft blanket, in new and clean pajamas. His eyes closed, and only opened four hours later, because of those loud, maladroit noises there, behind the wooden panel. He swallowed as he slowly sat up, blindly searching for the interrupter but he didn't find it.  
It couldn't be someone else than his flatmate. Mrs. Hudson was never going upstairs, to Watson's bedroom, because, well, why would she need so? And nobody except them three had the key, at least he thought so, but despite all of this, he was scared, pushing quickly his blanket away from his tanned legs.   
 There was a moment of silence, before the latch started moving, and finally, the door was pushed open. John had to get used to the darkness surrounding him.   
 At first, the only thing he could see was Sherlock's bright beautiful pupils, glowing in the shadow. Then, as his view recovered, he was able to distinguish his shaky, thin silhouette. His right hand was still holding firmly on the latch, and his body was pressed against the door frame. He blinked once, twice, thrice, like he was trying to hold back imminent years. He kept standing that way for a while, his gaze lost in front of him, not able to see his friend was just there, on the mattress.   
 The blonde man, worried, and noticing something was wrong, stood up and carefully walked to the consulting detective. What a good moment to test his abilities of touching people. It was like a gift, fallen from the sky, but a damaged one. It wasn't difficult to see Sherlock was completely drunk, it was clear, judging by his gestures, his moves.. John had never seen him in that estate before, but there were no doubts. The only question was: why?  
-Sherlock.., he whispered, and his voice seemed to get lost into the cold room.  
 Hesitantly, one of his hand reached out and approached the brunet, but the taller man stepped aside, stumbling to John's wardrobe. The other let his arm fall along his side, his heart heavy and empty.  
 He observed, powerless, his best friend, trembling, searching into a pile of clothes. Usually, he would tell him how inappropriate this was, and he would have got the detective back to his bed, but it wasn't the usual, now, was it?  
 A small, high noise broke the silence, and John thought he recognized it, though he had never heard it from Sherlock. A sob.  
 Why would Sherlock Holmes sob? And why would he come back home early in the morning with an impressing volume of alcohol in his blood?  
 An other noise came out of the brunette's mouth, but this one was different. This one, the army doctor knew it. It was the sound his friend was making whenever he was getting his hands on his beloved cigarettes. A relieved but not necessarily happy sound. Almost bitter. Yes, that was it. Sherlock was full of bitterness.  
 John only had the time to spot the detective was holding his favourite beige jumper close to his chest before the curly man disappeared after closing the door behind him.

 When John woke up and that he opened the curtains, the sky was still very dark. But not dark like the night. No. Something made him believe this wasn't normal. His instincts were always true. There, he was sure they were.  
 Slowly, he closed the curtains and made his way to the bathroom, dressed with his pajamas, though he felt like he was naked.  
 He reached the bathroom some seconds later.  
 It was dark there too. He turned the lights on and a small whine left his throat at the bright luminosity, stronger than it was supposed to be. It could be compared to one of those spots they were using to illuminate the red carpet during the premieres of brand new films. His hands grasped the sink as his legs shook, threatening to give way beneath him. His breath abnormally started to accelerate when his gaze went up to meets his own, pale reflect on the mirror.   
 On his face. Big, black flies.  
 John let out the scariest, loudest scream ever, his stomach jumping in his belly, contracting so hard he was seeing stars and he had retching that could lead to only one result. His mouth, wide holes was freeing so many flies the doctor thought he was going to faint, his eyes rolling in his orbits. He fell on the ground noisily, coughing and spitting blood and flies.  
  
Death is coming after you

-NOOOOO!  
 John sat up on his bed, covered with sweat, a headache burning his brain. He tried to calm down, panting heavily, hands clung on his sheets. This nightmare, it looked so real... His grip slowly loosened and he quickly moved his palms to his face. No more flies. He sighed in relief and then, he was able to relax.  
 A nightmare. It was just a nightmare. The most terrible he had ever done, but he was awake now. Everything was alright.   
Though he was sure he was back to reality, John was afraid as he entered in the bathroom. Those flies... What if they were to appear again? And what was the meaning of it all?  
 Nothing happened once he pressed on the button. The light was perfectly normal.

 No blood, no flies. A deep, relieved sigh left him. He was safe. Thanks God.  
 Once John took a shower and wasn't as sweaty as when he woke up, he changed into clean, comfortable clothes and went to the kitchen to make breakfast with what he'd find, which wasn't a lot, but if was decent. Next step: the library.  
 Before leaving, the doctor slowly and carefully made his way to Sherlock's bedroom. The door was half closed. The blonde man dared to pass his head in the opening, and what he saw made him happy but also tore him apart.  
 The tall, pale detective had his nose buried into John's favourite jumper, his long fingers holding onto it tightly. Watson concluded the calling of the day before was from the hospital.  
 Sherlock knew. It was obvious. He would have never done it otherwise. He didn't have the answer yet, but John felt his best friend was missing him. And, even if it undoubtedly hurt, it brought a smile to his cold lips.

 The stomach full, John was sitting all alone at a table in the municipal library of the town, tons of books placed on the table in front of him. Earlier, he grabbed anything that might be linked to his problems. This place would definitely be more helpful than Internet.  
 He had already searched in six works and he didn't find a lot, except that flies was a symbol of death, known to be the ones who were facilitating the decomposition of organic corpses. It seemed quite clear and logical. His dream basically told him he was going to die and rot under the ground. After the eighth book, John started to fall into despair. He had no information in plus. Nothing was helping. He closed it angrily and was about to take an other one with a green cover and black inscriptions when a feminine voice stopped him.  
-Oh I wouldn't try this one if I were you.   
 The blonde male gasped in surprise and the book fell off of his hands, finishing on the floor with a loud noise. Some people who were at table further turned around and gazed at where the man and the stranger were sitting, them focused their attention back on their books.  
The woman in front of him had dark, long hair that was covering her shoulders, and her red lips were covered with a genuine, almost childish smile. She seemed young, at least, younger than him. Her eyes, green but also blue reminded him of Sherlock's and he wondered if he wasn't just dreaming, imaging some clone of his best friend who could manage to see him, probably because of the lack of talking with this man he was having a deep interest into.   
-In fact, if I were you, I would go to my body and try to figure all of this on my own. Well... I'm giving advices, but I don't even follow them.  
 She sighed, then got lost into a clear laughter, and John could only blink in confusion.  
-You.. You can see me? He asked, quickly leaning down to grab the book that just fell, then eagerly focused back on the quite beautiful girl in front of him.  
 An other laughter. The ex soldier wasn't sure if he found that cute or particularly irritating.  
-Yes, of course, I can. I'm like you.  
 John continued to watch the pretty stranger. He wasn't getting this at all. Like him? Did she see her mutilated corpse as well?  
-You mean..  
-Yes. I basically am dead. Not completely dead. Alright, I'm in a deep coma, and I think you too.  
 A beat of silence that got broken by a longer sigh of the brunette, who tested her chin in the palm of her right hand, staring at everything the other 'ghost' found.  
-Harry Potter, seriously? She giggled, and the man blushed in embarrassment.  
-That could have helped!  
-Don't get that offended! She laughed.  
 New silence while the woman observed the table, her bright eyes suddenly going up to meet John's darker ones.  
-Since when are you in that estate, then?  
-Yesterday. A car hit me. I..don't understand. What is happening?  
 The brunette bit her bottom lip and her right arm fell on the table. She seems to be as lost as the blond, and he wondered how she arrived here. What happened to this poor girl..?  
-We're between life and death, that's all I know. I was supposed to get married months ago, but my future ex husband decided I wasn't the good one. I cried all the tears..felt all the pain.. I was weak, I'm not proud of it..  
 John didn't find the words to comfort her. He still didn't know about her accident, but he was deeply sorry. That was one of his talents, he was incredibly empathic.  
-Now, the decision is ours, she brutally said in a changed, harder tone. We leave or we stay.  
-We can actually decide if we wake up or not?  
-Yes, she nodded, that's what I understood. But it isn't as easy as choosing what you're going to eat tonight. I'm like this for months, as I told.  
 Months... God this was so long. Far too long. The man couldn't live like that. He couldn't even bear to stay that way for less than twenty four hours, so a month? What if it was for years?   
 The stranger said she was weak, but there, if his nerves weren't of steel, John would have broken down and cried. He was missing Sherlock, and Greg, and his work, everything, everyone around him.   
-Why can't we decide it easily? If we really want to, we should be able to wake up!  
-I don't know.  
 A whine left his throat as he leaned desperately back into his wooden chair.   
 If it had to be like this, maybe his nightmare would turn right.  
 Maybe he would die and rot under the ground.


End file.
